Destiny's Savagery
by Siaynoqsbride
Summary: Padmé has survived, but with terrible consequences. She has lost all memory of her husband and life before. Can she and the bitter shell of Anakin Skywalker find healing together, or will they plummet into further darkness? VP, AU. UPDATED, FINALLY!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

I dislike being on the Imperial City.

My master knows it. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the smirking satisfaction when he orders me to come to the planet. I believe it is _why_ he orders me here, why I must remain here rather than where I would be useful to the Empire. I ask him why I must come, and he merely tells me that he wishes for my rest.

The planet has changed since the times of the Republic. Its nature is more stifled, more subdued. None can forget the shadow above them of the Emperor's Palace, looming over their heads, its black spires seeing everything. It is ever-present, choking even mere whispers of rebellions or plots. Stormtroopers are stationed _everywhere_. Passers-by do not look at each other, do not exchange conversational words even in greeting, for fear of being overheard. My Master's spies are everywhere. The aura of fear, nauseating and claustrophobic, seems to stream away from the capitol in rivulets.

The Senatorial apartments have long been destroyed. What is the use for them if you no longer truly have _senators_? I did not even consider it when it happened, did not spare a second glance for the flowing, beautiful architecture that was replaced with gray uniformity. It was not like I could actually appreciate aesthetics anymore. The suit's substitute for eyesight no longer has the ability to recognize beauty.

More than anything, I hate the feeling of_ restlessness _that invades me when I am here. Relaxation is impossible more than anything. I feel useless, edgy. The fear of the populace that I should be feeding off of, glorifying from, only manages to reflect onto me. Anywhere else I would feel secure, would revel in the power that nourishes me. The Dark Side of the Force is insufficient now, and I am agitated constantly.

I am not in control on this planet. I answer only to the Emperor, yet it seems like there is something unseen that influences me here, taints the dark pool of anger that swirls within me. Memories stir in me, my mind returning to patterns of thought that are completely forbidden. Voices from long ago capture me, radiating with simple power that I am unable to resist.

I stand at the window, staring out at the sky for hours, unresponsive to anything, immersed in my own thoughts.

It is harder to repress Anakin Skywalker now. Doubts creep in where there should only be power. Tenderness, dizzying and strange, assaults impenetrable shields of anger. I can do nothing but think, think of people who should be forgotten, of a woman whose name I am too afraid to even breathe.

Bitterness seeps in, clouding memories of love and happiness. Her voice betrays me over and over again, her eyes shining with disgusted revulsion. Part of me echoes the hatred in her eyes, and everything turns inward.

I am pulling more and more on buried grievances and wounds, sinking deeper into the darkness to pull me from the light. I am becoming hopelessly twisted, even more than before. I long to forget, to leave again the shackles of my old life behind, to ascend to further glory. But I am not rising; it feels only as if I am sinking into the mire of despair. I cannot revel in the Dark Side, in power. They are slipping through my fingers, and I am drowning.

I am continually assaulted by waking dreams, here. Nightmares have followed me from sleep to life, and I can find rest nowhere. They speak to the buried spirit of Anakin Skywalker, resurrecting him from where he is shackled. And I am awash again in throbbing, destroying hatred, wounds that are being ripped open. Part of me _wants_ to feel the pain, wants to immerse myself in it for all that I have done.

That part of me, dead elsewhere, so far buried as to be nonexistent, pulses with anguish and feeling here. I have no self-control, no mastery over myself.

I _hate _Coruscant.

I have an apartment. It is suitably lavish, filled with everything that Sidious's Second-in-command deserves. Furniture coats it in decadence, lavish with everything as possibly expensive and opulent as it could hope to be. I have a chamber in which air flows into my useless lungs, a chamber in which I am free for a few precious moments.

But I am not _useful_.

I cannot repress the other life within me, the life that is Skywalker's. When I am commanding armies, I am Vader, fully and completely, and I am an emissary of the Dark, my Master's servant. Power swirls around me, others' fears sustains me and I am content. But here, emotions sweep around me, across me, and I am suffocated. I remember _her _here, and there is nothing separating me from the terrible radiance that is her presence in my memory.

------

I watch the sun set, my eyes seeing only a blur of color, nothing beautiful or practical. I am reminded again of my hate for Obi-Wan Kenobi. He has taken _everything _from me.

Something is calling to me, suddenly. It is difficult to name the feeling, difficult to place. It soft, yet contains infinite power, speaking through a barrier from far away. It is the voice of the Force, attempting to regain power over _me_. It calls to Anakin Skywalker, whispers to the dormant instincts within me.

Anywhere else, I would bury it with a surge of irate fury, but here, I am helpless to resist. My hands clench around each other as the urge grows to a compulsion, a desire within myself.

_Go_, a voice whispers. _Walk among the people_.

I cannot resist, finally giving in, stalking away from the window. I have destroyed anything here that reminds me, however faintly, of my past. The decorum is self-mocking in its splendor, because the memories are inward and they can never be purged.

There is nothing to disguise me from the people as I exit my dwelling. The suit was not built to allow me to merge, to become another anonymous face. Furtive glances will follow me now, filled with fear and supplication. No matter my purpose, I am inseparable with the Empire in every mind. I am merely an extension of its purpose, of its might.

I bow my head, the urge to walk among the citizens of the Empire not diminished, only growing. I can feel their glances, the quickly-hushed whispers as I sweep past them on the street. I can taste their thoughts, can feel the aura of the Force darkening with terror. I am nothing more than a harbinger of doom, to them. I am less, and more, than human.

My eyes do not take in the surroundings, as the whisper within me is leading, not my own sense of direction. It drives me farther and farther away from my home, into the criminal underbelly of the planet. Crime still thrives; not even strict Imperial rule can stop that.

Raucous conversations held in loud voices quiet into murmurs at my approach. I look at nothing, as the whisper within me has grown until it is the complete and total focus of my attention.

_Run_, the voice within me shouts, and I do, scattering inhabitants, something urgent tugging at me. I can feel it, and it is the _source _of anxiety, the cause. Everything that has been surreal suddenly clicks into focus. Nothing matters anymore, not the Empire, not the repressed memories, not my hate or my anger, only the very real presence that I feel. It is growing, slowly, and I recognize it, from long ago.

Hidden thoughts are becoming revealed, dormant dreams that I long thought dead are awakening, pulling at me in the tide, the ebbing currents of the Force. They are mine, and they push me onwards, with an anxiety I had not known I possessed. I can feel the devastation behind me, can hear the terrified sobs of those who have felt my presence, but they do not concern me, not now.

The whisper is now a scream, pulling at me, tugging at my very essence, almost to the point of ripping me apart.

I slow as I reach my destination, and everything falls into place. The universe spins sickly for a moment, everything turning over on itself, fear and love and power all combining into one explosion.

A woman is crouched in a corner, her arms upraised, shielding her head as if to forestall some inevitable wrath that will come upon her. She is trembling, I realize, and the revelation shakes me. Her arms do not drop, but she opens her eyes slowly, tears of dread falling from her cheeks.

Time stops as her eyes regard mine. I do not see the terror there, the tempest of terror and bewilderment. I do not see the cruelty of age on her face, the hints of hardships. I only see _her_.

Padmé.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

There are no words, at first. Only a kind of astonishment, a moment where I can _feel_ time shifting beneath my feet, where I can feel my life turning. Because it is _her_.

I am too stunned even to reach through the Force to even make certain her identity. I attempt to speak, but the words run dry on my tongue the second I open my mouth. Her eyes are still focused on mine, her arms still raised in terror.

I can feel her _seeing _me. The sycophants that surround me, even the Emperor, none of them truly look into my eyes. They see the thing that I have become, not the man that I was. But in her eyes, I see an understanding that surpasses this moment. I see universes colliding within her chocolate-brown eyes; I see a mixture of things far too terrible to behold.

The part of me that still cares, the instinctive reflex of being a Sith, rises up at the crowd behind us. They are gathering around in wonder, in confusion. I realize, dazzled, that they do not see her as I do. All they see is an unfortunate woman kneeling before the Dark Lord's wrath.

Reflex suddenly springs to life within me, taking over the rest of me that is still too bewildered to care. I cannot touch her, cannot yet bear the thought of my _digits_ upon her flesh, but I can coax her, like an animal from hiding...

"Come with me," my voice booms majestically, and once, just this _once_, I wish I could impart warmth upon it.

Her eyes falter from mine, and she trembles more, breathing shallowly from her chest. Only then once she releases me from the spell do I see the hollow gauntness of her cheeks. Only then do I see the rags she is wearing.

It is of no concern to me. If she was wearing sackcloth and ashes, I would welcome her home as my bride.

She still does not move, and anguish begins to creep in the void where seconds ago there was only shock. I know after all that I have done that she will not fall in my arms, but surely she must see that she has to come with me. I have been imagining her for so long, and her presence has _tormented _me for what seems like forever. To see her is completely surreal. I feel as if she will evaporate into mist the second I touch her.

I still cannot speak her name, cannot plead with her because it is still all too much. I am drowning, and I am lost in a flood of despairing, unrelenting love and sorrow. The part of me that is allied to the Force is reaching out unconsciously, seeking comfort. Seeking _her_. It is like a child reaching blindly to its mother with no knowledge of the supplication.

Her arms lower, and hushed whispers start to circle around the crowd that has gathered. They bear astonished but wary curiosity. I do not doubt that reports of my behavior here will soon circulate back to the Emperor, but that is none of my concern. Not right now.

_Nothing_ matters right now. Not her betrayal, not the bitterness I felt at the mere thought of her name, nothing. All that is eclipsed by one central, burning fact: She is _alive_.

I cannot stand the fear in her eyes any longer, the terror burning brightly. I reach forward, ignoring steadfastly everything else. My heart is pounding in my ears, and I am truly afraid for what feels like the first time since I first saw her dying. Something within her strips away the power that is my only ally, and I am helpless.

My hand is dark to my eyes, even compared to the refuse of Imperial City's lower levels. It extends in the space between us, and it almost feels as if it is not attached to me. I am imagining the contact with her flesh, imagining that it will either scar or heal me...

And then her hand is in mine, and she is still trembling. Her eyes are downcast demurely, and I wonder at the changes in her that she should be so subdued. My hand shakes a little as well, because I am touching her and she is _real_, not a product of my imagination or a cruel trick.

But then I realize what I am doing, that I am holding the hand of _Padmé_. Strength flows into me because I remember. I remember what I dreamed for us at Mustafar, what she rejected.

Because now, it is like we are Emperor and Empress,. It does not matter that we are in these dingy surroundings. It does not matter that she is wearing rags and I am a mere fraction of the man I was. All that matters is that she is _here_, now.

She is standing, the warmth of her hand in mine but still will not look at me. It is like she is an enemy who has been defeated and is awaiting her sentence. I do not feel exultant triumph, however, only amazed fear in the worst way.

I pull her gently away from the corner she had been hiding in. And suddenly silent tears are spilling down my face because everything that I have _hoped _for is here. My wife is by my side, again. I can bear her hate; it will be nothing compared to the revulsion I feel for myself.

There is utter silence, now, and the only noise is the hiss of my respirator. Just for this moment, I am grateful for my destroyed lungs. I am not sure that I would be able to breathe on my own in this moment. I can feel the astonished fear of the crowd, and suddenly it _does _affect me. It raises me to further heights of glory.

I feel contempt stirring from parts of me that should not be able to feel. I feel unworthiness suddenly pour over me in a dizzying torrent. I am suddenly aware of the fact that I should not be touching her because she is so far beyond me, because all I have _done_. Images from Mustafar streak past me in a uncontrolled flash on my horizon, and my breathing catches imperceptibly.

I swallow, attempting to drown the feelings, but they will not dissipate, even as I lead her ragged form through Coruscant. I do not walk with a sense of ownership any longer, but only humble defeat. I cannot rid myself of my own revulsion, even as her head sinks lower and her eyes refuse the sight of mine. There are no words between us, not even the intimacy of our connection. I am cut off, and even though she is here, it suddenly feels _worse_, because now I feel that can condemn me. Her silence cuts me as a knife, slicing, penetrating.

I want to reach out to her, want to comfort her, but I cannot. I cannot heal myself, so the mere thought of attempting to help her is pointless.

Her hand in mine is a nervous weight, and it often feels like she wants to take it back. But I will not let her, because whatever she has become, she is still _mine_.

I open the door to my apartment, at last releasing her once we are inside. Her hand falls from mine numbly, and I turn around to look at her, to take her appearance in. I once again curse Obi-Wan and all that he has taken from me, as I only see her through the imperfect lenses of my mask.

Darkness closes in around me as she still will not acknowledge my presence. She is acting as a servant, even after that blazing moment when her eyes saw me and her soul touched mine. Fury pounds within me, and suddenly I am encased in the darkness once more. How _dare_ she? After everything that I have done, the anguish that I have endured at her memory, how _dare _she not even say a word?

Or does she hate me that much, that she cannot bear to even look at me?

I speak the first words since my desperate offer. These are colder, and speak with the harsh acuteness of anger, something I had not intended.

"How do you like my home?"

There is little reaction from her, except her hand clenching on the tattered fabric of her robe. She breathes in through her mouth, her ribs shallowly expanding. I can feel only fear from her, and it is agonizing.

Suddenly, I feel as if she is doing this intentionally, fearing me because she knows it will bring me pain. I have endured fear from every other being in the galaxy, and the thought that I should have to see it in her is unimaginable. Just once, a very tired, lost, broken part of me would like to have her look in my eyes and breathe the name 'Anakin.' The thought that she is too _afraid _of me to love me only brings fury.

Wounds still unhealed are opened viciously. Seeing her brings me no feelings of warmth or kindness now; only the furious anguish in which she left me. I stalk towards her, gathering the full effect of my power and anger around me. It burns again, a flame ignited, throbbing within me.. It encircles me, purging all doubt or fear that I might have had. I bury temporary weakness under anger, forcing the tears back. I long for apathy now, long for it desperately. Not feeling is easier than hope.

"Don't toy with me," I hiss. I am grateful for the voice now, grateful that its deep timbre withholds any betraying tremor of despair. She keeps her head down, still. Soft curls cross around her face, wreathing it with beauty, even through the sharp lines of hardship. She acts as if she does not know me, but I will not suffer any deceit.

Anger fills me. It is hot, flowing and powerful, genuine. I tap into the reserves of strength that are my sustenance. It has been so long since I have been genuinely _angry_. I savor the emotion, breathing it in, becoming one with the Dark Side. There is so much _power_ here, so much that the Jedi would have taken from me if I had allowed them. It is intoxicating, fascinating to me and I am drawn to its awful allure.

"I do not know how you survived," I breathe. She still will not look at me, her eyes fixed on her hands determinedly. No betraying signs are visible on her face, no vulnerabilities. It enrages me that my world is exploding and she sits there, as calm and serene as the day I first met her.

Pain surges inside of me, newly awakened. Perhaps she does not want to remember me, remember all that I have done. The thought is suffocating, closing in like a trap around me. I am immediately torn back to the day I last saw her, and something within me gives way.

I grab her hands and slam her against the wall, ignoring her shrill cries of protest. Power is flowing through me now, and I am merely an extension of its might. All the rage I have felt for the past ten years, all the fury burning inside of my that I have yet to exorcise, all the _agony _of losing her, it all unifies into one single action. She does not have the _right _to forget me, not after her betrayal.

I scream, burning my throat with intensity, "Answer me! Damn you, I know you hear me!"

Her eyes open, the same eyes that have haunted me for the last five years. There is no glimmer of condemnation or love in them, or anything resembling what I feel. I can sense in her the deep defiance and grace for which I first loved her, but they are buried behind something, behind a thick shield into which I cannot reach.

There is only panic and confusion, an impenetrable fog which I feel no powers can dissipate. Tears spill from her eyes, tears of exhausted fright, so very similar and so very different from the ones she shed so long ago. She takes in a shuddering sigh, my hands still binding her to the wall, my face mere inches from hers.

"Lord Vader, I had an accident, years ago," she whispers, eyes cast down, her voice halting, refusing to look me in the face. "I forgot _everything_, my Lord. Any memory of my old life has fled; I know nothing of who I was before.

"I have no memory of you."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N-I'll do author's replies later tonight, but right now I'm just too tired to do anything but post this. I'm actually very proud of myself that between a solo contest, a choir concert_ and_ contest, ridiculous amounts of homework, a play, and overall business I managed to write a chapter within a month of the last update._

**Chapter Three**

I do not know the moment when my hands release her arms, when I step back, stunned, shock's cruel coldness dampening the furnace of rage and pain. She is crumpled on the floor, her head down, clutching her stomach, tears still falling. Suddenly they are painful to me, each exhaled sob of hers feeling as if it has fallen from me. Fate crashes down upon me, the uneasiness culminating, crescendoing and then fading into nothingness, leaving me in darkness.

Her name is torn from my lips, raw and scraping. It does not equate to Padmé; the syllables cannot possibly form her beauty, her presence, her warmth and her brightness. This only frightens the weeping woman before me, and I feel my life being shattered, again. New pain finds place among the old, all of it sweeping together, overwhelming. Just as I have finally found her again, everything is snatched away again...

And then I am kneeling, suddenly, even before I realize it. I am reliving the agonizing moment when I learned of her death, and the despair is no less. _Shedoes not remember_. She does not remember our love, the beauty we wrought, everything that was torn away from us. She has been brought back to me, after five _years_ of searching for something I barely even recalled.

And she does not remember. She is as I am, a mere broken shell. But whereas I am doomed to remember, to relive every second of torment, she is free. I realize, my old memories' resurgence within me sudden, that I am bound to her in ways I cannot understand.

Tenderness is mocking as I imagine my arms encircling her small form protectively. Love is but a cutting knife as I remember our _happiness _together. I remember more, more atrocities. I remember the accusation I threw at her, the final word of judgment that burned within me.

_Liar! _

The shields that have encased me are stripped away, leaving only the raw remnants of the man I was. They bleed over into her, and I can feel her confusion at the stream of images that are flowing from me to her. Rage, the product of the hissing serpent. Twisted love, a rose whose thorns have cut too deep. Jealousy, seething and bitter. The knowledge that I am not worthy of pity, and yet not being able to help myself from feeling it.

She is still coiled in protectively around herself. Her hands are curled around her prone form, covering her stomach as if instinctively protecting something that was no longer there. I feel a sharp pang of hurt as images cut into my mind, different images. And then I can no longer breathe as I remember our children, as I remember all that fate has taken from us.

She is staring in horrified wonder at my weakness. I feel hurt explode as I realize that she did not even know that I was human. She is staring at me with something akin to frightened pity. I long to reach for her, to demand comfort. Needs, longings I have not felt in what seems like an eternity are beginning to resurface. I begin to ache for simple human companionship, for eyes that overflow with love and gentleness.

I can feel her pain. I have felt it before, impending over me. It was like a sick, wounded animal whose cries forced me to sacrifice the blood of children to appease it. I felt her impending death lurking like mist and shadow, barely even tangible. Now her fear crawls around me, seeping into the mask, and suddenly I am _drowning _in it. I have always been connected to her. She is a part of me, deeper than I realize, inseparable. Her agony touches the edges of my vision, her desperate fear of something she cannot even name tainting my very air.

And there is no way for me to comfort her.

It is _I _she fears, I realize slowly. It is power's darkness that she can sense and revolts from. She can feel the blackness within me and shies away from it. Its intoxicating glory is too much for her, even without memory. I remember her on Mustafar, the look of condemnation in her eyes, the despair and the thinly veiled revulsion.

They burn me once again, and then I am begging with a voice I no longer possess. My arms are stretched out in a gesture of supplication. She is no longer crying, she is now looking down on me with something that could perhaps resemble pity.

Pity which I neither need nor deserve.

I am not strong enough to push her away, however. My arms somehow still reach for her, despite my attempts to stop them. She is not my wife, I can feel it now. I can feel haunting echoes of the presence that was so closely joined to mine, but it is not _her_. It is like living in darkness, remembering golden radiance only to be given a pallor, pale candle.

My head bends, my forehead leaning on her palm. My hands have grasped hers, and I feel a gasp of fear from her that cuts deeply into me. I cannot touch her, cannot reignite the sensations of flesh on flesh. Simply wanting this in itself is a sin; the idea that she would dare to look upon my scarred visage with more than horror is a dream.

But still, my hand encircles hers, and then we are trembling together. I can feel her confusion, thick and heavy. I realize then that there are some bonds between us that have not been severed. Something still exists that binds us together at instinctive levels, a connection faint and trembling.

This form of her is not tainted, I realize suddenly. Revulsion sweeps over me at the part of myself that remembers Padme as _tainted_; she was always perfect, always an angel.

But still, an insidious, soft voice born of the darkness whispers within me. _She has not been poisoned by the Jedi, by Obi-Wan. She is _yours_, whether she remembers it or not. _

The agony slides away from me, and my trembling stills. The part of me that was born from the blood of younglings retakes power. I am myself again, dominant, powerful, cool. I let her hand drop, disgust for myself overcoming everything else. I am acting as a _slave_ now. The dark demon of power surges within me, cold and terrifying, forcing me to remember its power. Regret's whisper dies within me, and I stand on suddenly firm legs, still not willing to look at her.

My wife as she had been was weak. I ignore the furious protest that rises up within me from parts that should no longer be able to feel. I cut them off, ignoring the pain which has become as familiar to me as the sound of my breath.

Perhaps she has been reborn as I have. I do not allow myself to shudder as I remember all that she represents; my past, the self-loathing carried deeply within me. Padmé was the raw essence of everything that Anakin Skywalker loved and cared for.

But this woman is not Padmé.

And, perhaps, in time, she could become something different, something new. I feel hints, echoes of the same desperate feeling of unworthiness as I reach out with trembling, infant senses to the bond between us. But the revulsion is not as strong, not nearly as powerful as it was before. Power's firm grasp has replaced all the weakness within me, at least for now.

I touch her mind, feather-light. I feel her recoil in unknowing fear, and a bitter, painful smile rises on my face. I think for one moment of what Anakin Skywalker would do, of the warmth he could pull upon, clothing her in the radiance of the Force glowing with his love.

But I can no longer remember, and touching the light burns, more than the dark. I cut myself off from her pain, straightening my shoulders, assembling dignity around myself once more. I remind myself that she does not know me, that she cannot see through the shallow facade I have constructed around the parts of myself that are still throbbing with pain.

I turn, my eyes falling slowly down to her face. The sight of her face, gaunt with hunger, ravaged with uncertainty, fear and pain that she cannot remember to feel, causes me a moment's uprising. But I quell the insurgence of Anakin Skywalker. And, as I look down on her, I can see what she _could _be, if she was twisted enough to become what only a fool would call my wife.

A mere glimmer of remorse in my voice, I murmur, "Welcome home."


	4. Chapter 4

_Well. This is the first time I have written fanfiction in about a year... wow. If I have any loyal readers left, I will be astonished, honestly. I have a little bit of trepidation about posting this, but here goes nothing anyways. I really, really do intend to finish this one, and to update it again. Thank you so much, if there is anyone left! I really, really missed this fandom, and writing in it. _**  
**

**Chapter Four – Padmé**

Lord Vader has left the room, has left me alone. He swept away from here, into some other hidden chamber. I watched him leave with astonished confusion, not daring to move, to even breathe. There was something vaguely poetic about the way he moved, an indescribable air of tension radiating from his clenched fists, his steadily marching boots. The air of power he exudes does not diminish when he is at home, I note mechanically.

I am not sure whether to feel relief or terror at his exit, and end up feeling nothing but blankness.

_Welcome home_, he said. He had looked so inhuman, so machine-like, so incredibly terrifying. And he, he had laid his mask on my _hand_, had knelt at my feet like a supplicant. The images flashed through my mind quickly, half-real, glimpsed impressions.

A thick, deep sense of wonder rises up in me, and I know I am on the verge of hysterical, sobbing laughter.

He had whisked me through Coruscant, had walked me into the _Imperial Suite_, as if I was a queen or an officer or anything else than a forgotten, impoverished lowlife. I didn't look at him, didn't want to. His purposes had seemed so impenetrable, so nefarious. I was at a loss to know what he wanted with me. _Me_, starving, hungry, desperate, on-the-edge-of death me.

I had heard stories about him, had heard snatches and rumors and whispers not quelled by his legend. I heard obscure,_ obscene_ things.

So it was that when he had came to me, his presence cutting a knife through the destitute levels of Imperial City, I thought he had come to kill me, or use me for some other, even more twisted purpose.

I remind myself cautiously that I still don't know what he wants from me.

His questions had been inlaid with an intimacy that astonished and horrified me. There were no _inflections_ in his voice, but the way he had asked them had seemed tender, like a small child begging for a mother's approval. I didn't know how to answer him, didn't know if I could even speak. His angry accusations had been sudden, provoked by my confused and wary silence.

He had slammed me into the wall with a sudden viciousness. His cruelty had been of little surprise to me, really. Still, I couldn't help the indrawn breath I took, the tears. I was still weak, still afraid, still hoping to live.

I said the only thing I could, the truth, not knowing whether I would lose my life or keep it.

And he had collapsed, had _collapsed_ at my feet. His sudden, incredible vulnerability was... impossible. It was like he had broken some essential, codified law of the universe by falling, _falling_ to me. This Lord, this Right Hand of the Empire, this force of unimaginable strength, exhibiting weakness...

Realizing that this meant I would live, I had fallen in on myself, panting with relief and sudden, powerful joy. My hands had clutched my belly, smoothing and re-smoothing the coarse material of my frock in a desperate attempt at comfort.

He had _crawled _towards me, like an animal, and laid his head into my palm. Strange, desperate noises were coming from the mask. They sounded like weeping and broken, half-uttered sentences.

Something had moved, deep within me, in a place I hadn't known existed. It wasn't either pity or a sense of self-preservation, or even astonishment... it was deeper than that, richer. Remembering the feeling, I close my eyes, lips parting, trying to pin it down. It had supplanted my hunger, my fear, everything else. It was only a flutter, a mere twitch, like an eyelid blinking, a sixth sense awakening. But it had been _so_...

I remember the moment passing, and him suddenly stiffening. Fear had returned to me, coursing through my bloodstream in waves. A new, vibrant desire had returned to me to live, to _live_. I wondered, holding my breath, if he would kill me for witnessing – whatever the _hell_ it was I had just witnessed.

And then he had uttered that inscrutable, vague sentence; _Welcome home_.

And stalked off.

The words had seemed full of menacing promise, and I am still trying to interpret them, now that my trembling has ceased. Welcome _home_?! To his home? This place, gleaming with richness and artificial beauty?

And me? _Me_?

The unreality of this all sweeps over me now in a tepid wave, and all I can do is fall onto the cold stone floor of his entryway, laughing. I finally give full reign to my hysterics, cackling desperately, slumped at the juncture between wall and floor.

Just an hour ago, I was wondering if I would even survive another day. I had been too poor, too despairing to even whore myself out on the streets. My eyes had been glazed over with indifference, a casual apathy to whether I lived or died. The atmosphere had seeped into my flesh, into my very _soul_, and I was barely even human, drifting.

And now I am sitting here in Darth Vader's _living _room, laughing myself to death after he had practically prostrated himself at my feet.

I let loose a last few, desperate giggles, wiping my eyes slowly. Some part of me wonders if I simply finally took up drugs, and am merely high in some kind of bizarre hallucination.

A small robot comes towards me, silently and efficiently hovering at my eye level.

It is little more than a sphere, meant for more practicality than aesthetic value. Its cover is black and glossy, a shining, well-oiled gear in the Imperial machine. It is fairly large, a foot at least in diameter. A view-screen reflects my appearance back, and I stare at it detachedly.

God, I look a mess.

A smoothly mechanical, female voice comes from the machine.

"Lord Vader had ordered you to come with me, mistress."

I note with a twang of discomfort that the voice patterns are similar to mine.

And, for the first time, I begin to think, really _think_ about his reactions to me.

It's fairly obvious that he had known me before the accident, likely _years _earlier. I can't remember how long I've been hovering on Coruscant, barely alive, little more than a shadow. It's likely more than three, no, four years.

I'd often wondered about my life before my memory loss, before the accident that had destroyed my future. I had awakened in a Coruscant alley, with no recollection of how I had gotten there or why. I had been almost completely stripped naked, left with only a small, corded necklace hanging around my neck. It was a carefully, delicately carved sliver of Japor. I didn't remember who had given it to me, or when. I had only thought of it as precious, as valuable in some intangible way.

I had kept it, had treasured it, have it even still.

Getting to my feet, I reach down into the crudely sewn pockets and touch it lightly. The surface is smooth to the touch, and makes me feel indescribably relaxed. I begin to follow the machine, trying not to gawp at the elegant finery of Vader's home as the robot leads me through myriad hallways and corridors. It feels like I am intruding on a mausoleum of hollow, hushed stone. I have the sensation that the only inhabitants here are Vader and I, and whatever mechanical servants he may own. Every footfall echoes, and this apartment suddenly seems infinitely vast, as if it could continue for _miles_.

I wonder briefly what my relationship had been to him before. I remember the intimate way he had spoken to me, searching for some kind of approval. I touch my palm, remembering the smooth coolness of his helmet settling there. Biting my lip, I wonder suddenly, inevitably, if I had been his _mistress_, companion to the Dark Lord.

The thought fills me with immediate, helpless revulsion, and I shudder.

There is something within me that shirks away from him, from his power, his image, the atrocities he committed, still commits. It is strange that I feel this way, after living on the streets for so long, after seeing all matter of horrible, strange things. But thinking about him, thinking about the deaths and subjugations at his hand, I feel nothing but a strong, thick, core of moral outrage. For him, existing as he is, for everything that he's done.

It is a part of me left over from before, and something I still don't understand.

I never believed, as some did, that he was inhuman. The stories were widely spread about what kind of creature he could be, what lay beneath the mask. I was too caught up in worrying about my own survival to care or even notice.

Could a creature as awe-striking, as terribly, horribly powerful and frightening as Vader possibly care for someone? Could he, I, before, have...

The vulnerability he showed to me, the sudden anger and despair he revealed come flooding back to me. I want to tremble more, now, want to deny the reality of this with all my being, but I suddenly cannot. The truth rings in my ears, powerfully and undeniably. I feel weak and sickened with this new, horrible knowledge. I pause, stopping in the middle of a hallway, horrified, breathless.

Darth Vader and I were once lovers, and, despite everything, he wants me still, wants me even now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five – Padmé**

I actually gasp at the first feeling of water on my skin.

It is hot, and the sensation is better than anything has been in a long, long time. I haven't bathed, _really, _for months, at least.Personal hygiene isn't a big concern when you're worrying about where to get your next meal.

I stare at my body ruefully, at the protruding ribs and dirty, bruised skin. Then, grinning painfully, I carefully slip another leg into the heated water. Slowly, achingly, I slip my entire body under, inch by inch. The water is quickly tainted by the dirt and whatever else coats my body, but that's of little concern to me. Sighing, leaning my head against the rim, I think, _This is heaven_.

The 'fresher unit is fairly grandiose, as far as those things go. Black and silver decorate the entire thing, top to bottom, in geometric, twisting designs. But beneath it all, there is a sort of pure functionality; imposed, rigid and unyielding. It reminds me of this room's owner, and I feel taken aback for a moment, knowing that I am washing in _Darth Vader's_ house, that this all belongs to _him_. My mind, refusing to obey me, wonders if the Dark Lord himself has bathed in this very location.

I am torn between laughing and gasping at the thought.

Touching my hair, I grimace at feeling the tangled, snarled, impossible mess. The 'droid that brought me here left quickly afterwards, trusting me with the amenities of sink, bathtub and the various bottles scattered around.

I can feel some kind of instinct taking me over, guiding me mechanically through rituals of bathing, makeup and dressing I haven't observed in _years_. I feel accustomed to them, as if I am simply returning to an old habit left behind.

I scrub every inch of myself, until the grime and dirt washes away. It reveals the starkness of my condition; there is some lean, hardened muscle, stretched and scraped meagerly, but most of it is literally skin and bone. I don't touch my hair, can't even imagine dealing with it as is right now.

Finally, I rise out of the bathtub, leaving the water a brackish, disgusting color, and me clean. It makes me feel hungry – starving, actually. I suppose Vader will feed me, eventually.

There are clothes waiting for me, obviously scrounged together in a hurry. A soft, gray tunic of Imperial order and breeches, ugly and utilitarian. The undergarments are adequate, although I can't imagine where Vader found them.

I cannot help the sudden familiarity in my thoughts towards the Dark Lord. It is dangerous, perhaps, that I do not fear him as abjectly as I should. I can force myself to feel only a weary sort of anticipation towards him, towards all of it. His purpose for me will come eventually, and maybe I will be useless to him in the end.

But, for the moment, I can content myself with indulging in this, with tactile sensations and luxuries I do not know how to remember. It is all I have.

I see the scissors laying on the counter, waiting for me.

And then, there is the mirror, the thing that I have avoided ever since I walked into this room.

Taking a deep breath, I turn to face what has become of myself.

The face that greets me is old, but not haggard. Just... starving, in more ways than one.

My cheekbones protrude sharply, and there are lines around my eyes. I look ill-nourished, poor, desperate. My hair is horrible, really, all impossible snarls that I can never really hope to get out.

The imperial uniform doesn't really fit. It is too long in some places, and too short in others. The gray almost washes out my individuality, makes me a fixture in this place like the droid or the sink or the lighting.

Almost.

I lift one finger, the cuticle peeling and red, to my lips, feel them with my fingertip. They are cracked and dry, but I knew that already. Smiling, I look all different types of bitter and broken.

But there is something changed, something different now.

The last time I looked in a mirror, while I was still on the street, I was too delirious with thirst and hunger to really register what I saw. But I remember the look in my eyes, the utter hopelessness and apathy. I truly didn't _care_, didn't give a damn about who I was or where I was going or _anything_. It just seemed... irrelevant at the time. I was more and more part of the underbelly, sinking into the darkness with each passing day.

But now.

Now, my eyes look alive, awakened, and there is something sharp and shrewd glimmering in their depths. I am not beautiful, in this moment. My appearance reflects age and cynicism. But there is still something, something that was not before, hovering around me, and aura. It is indescribable, however much I would like to pin it down with words.

I allow myself one more moment of silent reflection, and then, shrugging, I reach for the scissors.

-----

My hair is now short and rudely cut, in spikes and patches. I brushed as much of it as I could, and cut off the rest. The skin on my neck is tingling, feeling strange and exposed. I also applied whatever cosmetics I found, but it doesn't really help, much. My overall appearance has improved, but not by much. I now look slightly less deranged, and slightly more like a fugitive.

Snorting, I look away. Perhaps I was vain, once. What else could Vader's former consort have been?

_You're making presumptions_, I chided myself. _You still don't know... anything. And you promised yourself you wouldn't think about that_.

Feeling distressed, my fingers itch to smooth the Japor carving, to trace its edges and lines. I inhale sharply when I realize that it has been taken along with the rest of my tattered clothing, gone.

Panic begins to settle in on me, and I dig my fingernails into my palms. That had been my last link to my life before. I had relied on it, had studied it in the late, midnight hours of the night, had...

Imminent fury rocks into me, hard and close like a glove. Vader has no right to take that from me, has no right to even _look _at it. Thinking of the last tie to my life lying in a garbage heap somewhere, buried, I hold back a small scream.

Not really thinking about what I am doing, I stalk towards the door. It hisses open quickly. Feeling my rage grow with every step I take, I walk blindly through Vader's home, not really knowing where I'm going, aching deeply for a confrontation.

Something tugs at me, a kind of instinct fluttering and pulsing. I chose to trust it, and follow the sensation through the twisting corridors to where it leads me. Everywhere I go the apartment becomes more cold, even more forbidding, and I feel a sudden, vehement hate for the elaborateness of the decoration._ It is like gold covering slime_, I think vengefully.

And then I am there.

The doorway is open to the chamber before me, but everything is flooded in shadow. I can _taste_ some sort of acrid, bitter presence, lingering in the darkness. The sound of rhythmic, machine-like breathing echoes menacingly. I hesitate, the flood of my rage suddenly dampening. It feels like I am poised at the entrance to some sort of primitive _cave_ of a beast.

Squinting into the blackness, I can make out the form of a chair, massive and broad-shouldered. Swallowing hard, I remind myself the reason why I'm here, and my anger reasserts itself.

I step boldly into the room. The tile is cold on my bare feet, but I make a very _careful_ effort not to cry out. Every muscle of mine is held under rigid control, and every breath is an attempt not to gasp. I wait, seething in the shadows for what seems like eternity before he turns around.

The lights rise, to half-power, and I observe quietly before looking at _him_. This room appears to be some sort of a study, with dark wood paneling and a huge, pretentious-looking desk dominating the center. There are other artifacts littering the corners and the walls that I do not recognize, and perhaps do not wish to.

And Vader seems to be directly looking at me now, and I refuse to wither under his scrutiny. I can feel his eyes raking over me; my hair, my face, my clothing, my lack of shoes. Sitting in the chair does not decrease the daunting nature of his presence; it only amplifies it.

In one hand, he holds the snippet of Japor. It is dwarfed by the hugeness of his palm, and my jaw clenches to see it in his possession.

For a moment, neither of us do anything but breathe. My eyes are fixated on the small, precious necklace he holds, and I can _feel_ the razor-edge line of his focus on me.

"Do you remember where you got this?"

His voice is demanding, rough, imperious. Biting my lip, I chose submissiveness as my response. It chokes me, a little, but the small snippet of Japor is more important than my pride.

"No, M'Lord."

Another silence. His fingers close, concealing the necklace from view. I close my throat off before I can make some sort of wordless protest. Biting my lip, I look away from him, down, anything to avoid staring into those inhuman, demonic eyes...

"Don't call me that."

It takes me a fraction of a second before I realize what he's referring to.

"How would you prefer I address you, sir?" It is difficult to keep some kind of petulant sarcasm from my voice, but I manage.

I can suddenly _feel_ the weight of the responses he's holding back. The breathing never slows down, never reveals his hesitation. I don't understand how he is so transparent to me, at this moment. But he is, painfully, awkwardly so.

"You may call me Lord Vader."

I don't know why it feels like a concession.

He stands, then, towering over me. In the half-light, he looks even more terrifying and elemental than usual. I close my eyes, unwilling to give into fear again. Something hard and steel has taken me over, is supporting me even now.

"Do you remember where you got it?"

The intensity of his glare bores into me before I look away. I answer mechanically, as if by rote.

"All I remember is awakening on Coruscant's streets, with no memory of my past life, and it being around my neck. Lord Vader."

He nods abruptly, and then pauses, revealingly.

"Don't fear me." The words are sudden, and seem more like a command than a plea.

I laugh shakily, involuntarily.

"I'm doing my best, sir."

"I will not harm you."

The words are a vague sort of promise, and I relax. Tension flows from my muscles, leaving me shaky and exhausted.

I can feel him studying my sudden weakness. I wonder what of me meets his approval, and what does not. I am incredulous that he could see _anything_ in me as I am now.

"What do you call yourself?"

I grimace.

"I have had no need of a name, Lord Vader. On the streets... everyone is anonymous."

Perhaps I am deceiving myself, but I believe that he sighs, once, quietly, and then turns away from me. I blink, casting down my eyes to the floor. It is best to behave as a servant towards him, for now at least.

A memory comes to me, of something Vader had yelled in anger and denial before he crumpled at my feet. The memory of his grief still shakes me, still leaves me confused and helpless, but...

"Before, did you call me... Padmé?"

The word is strange on my lips, exotic and foreign-tasting. I honestly _want_ to feel something saying it, a quiver of remembrance, anything. But I don't, not at all. It feels like saying someone else's name, someone that I only knew in passing acquaintance.

"Yes," he says. The answer is simple, and weary. I see his head bow once, as if in mourning, and then he turns towards me again, extending one black glove.

He drops the Japor snippet into my hand, and my fingers close quickly around it, greedily. His fingers hesitate briefly above mine, but then he withdraws quickly.

"Keep hold of that," Vader murmurs. "It is more precious than you could ever realize."


End file.
